If Dreams Were Horses
by sparkles59
Summary: My first fanfic, originally titled Cold, now rewritten and expanded. I leave it up to you to decide if it's improved or not. Daenerys' journey through the Red Waste, Qarth, Astapor and beyond. This is extremely dark and sad, so if you don't like those kinds of things, don't read it. No sense in reading it and then flaming me about it, right?
1. Chapter 1

Exorcising some of my own inner demons in addition to Dany's. This is sad and dark; not a pleasant ride, so turn back now if you don't like these things. Stick with Healed if you want happy.

* * *

Jorah escorted Dany out of the Khal's tent quickly, and Qotho came to them angrily, shouting that what they had done, it couldn't be. Dany snapped back at him immediately, "It must be." Rhakaro tried to pull him off, but Drogo's closest blood rider in his rage simply cuffed him with his elbow and knocked him down to the ground, shoving Daenerys down and out of his way just as quickly. Jorah could barely register his horror as Dany fell flat on the ground, unborn Rhaego taking the brunt of the fall before she could reach her hands out to catch herself. The horrifying singing, the many voices in the tent where only the godswife sang, sent shivers up Jorah's spine as he faced off with Qotho.

The fight was fast and furious, Jorah barely able to defend himself from Qotho's arakh before it was suddenly lodged in between two pieces of his plated armor. Using this bit of luck, Jorah swung his sword and sliced Qotho's neck, killing him in nearly an instant. He paused for a moment to wait for the fallen man to die before turning his back and returning to Daenerys, who was still on the ground, clutching her pregnant belly, her head in Irri's lap.

"Are you all right?" he demanded, and she moaned out.

"The baby, he is coming," she gasped.

Jorah looked up at Rhakaro, who had recovered from his blow to the face. "Bring the midwives."

"They won't come. They say she is cursed," the young blood rider answered.

"They will come, or I will have their heads," Jorah answered darkly, and Rhakaro knew the older knight meant every word.

"The witch can bring baby, I hear her say so," he replied, kicking at the ground where Dany had fallen, covering the wet earth where her waters had broken with the dry and rocky sand.

Jorah, fearing for Daenerys beyond what he thought he was capable of feeling for another human being, lifted her in his arms with Rhakaro's help, and carried her to the Khal's tent. He took great care to avoid the fallen body of Qotho as he did, the blood rider's blood still pulsing darkly out onto the rocks and sand in the too bright sunlight, contrasting with the pallid sun bleached ground.

Dany arched and screamed in his arms as she clutched at her belly, her body in overdrive to expel the infant within. Jorah ducked past the closed tent flap as he rushed in, desperate for help. He hung onto her coiled body as tightly as he dared, only putting her down when Mirri looked up at him from her chants and pointed to the bed next to the Khal. He laid her down quickly, then drew his sword, his hands shaking in his desperation. "You hurt her . . ." he threatened darkly. "You will die."

"She will not come to any harm," the woman said smoothly, and returned to her chants while Dany screamed and flexed, darkness and shadow surrounding and swirling in the close, hot air of the tent around them. Mirri eventually rose from her kneeling position in the center of the tent and roughly grabbed Dany's boots, pulling them off and tossing them aside before doing the same with her stained and bloody riding pants. "Burn them," she directed Jorah. "She will not want them, I assure you. Get behind her and take her arms. She will bear this monstrosity soon."

"He is the Khal of Khals, bitch," Jorah spat at her, still pointing his sword at the woman. "He will unite the world."

"If he survives being born so soon," the woman answered darkly, putting her hands on Dany's distended belly. "It is out of my hands if the Ram does not want him to live."

"What of the Khal? Will he live?" Jorah demanded. He did not trust this woman, but she was all he had.

"He will live, once the spirits choose his path," was all she would say, bending Daenerys' knees up and parting her legs. "Hold her."

The dark shadows whirled around Jorah as he sheathed his sword and gripped his Khaleesi's upper arms, his fingers digging into tender flesh as she screamed and struggled, feverish and barely aware of him holding her. He watched in dread, holding his breath, waiting, his eyes fixed on the woman's face and head between Dany's knees, ready to draw out Rhaego to life. Jorah found himself chanting prayers to the Seven, something he hadn't done in a very long time. Daenerys screamed and flexed her back into such a painful looking arch that he squeezed his eyes shut, only to open them in shock as she fell completely limp under him, unconscious.

Darkness danced and he could see individual shadows over Mirri Maz Duur's shoulders as they waited, watching, as she prepared to pull the baby out. A dreadful roar was beginning to build around him, surrounding him, a feverish Daenerys, and the Khal, who was lying delirious and unmoving next to him. Suddenly, a choked cry from Mirri's hands, weak and tiny, and Jorah's heart rejoiced for a moment before the great shadow near Mirri's shoulder suddenly swooped down upon the emerging baby and there were no more cries; the predator had its prey.

The pressure in the room was mounting, Jorah felt like he had been sunk to the bottom of the sea, cold, with the air as heavy as water around him. He couldn't think, couldn't breathe, couldn't feel anything at all. He watched, almost passively, as the great shadow, thick as mud, moved from the bloody and tiny lifeless babe in Mirri's hands to the Khal, settling and sinking into his bronzed skin, disappearing from sight.

The tent grew brighter, the roaring and angry shadows gone, light and air coming back into the living space. Wordlessly, Jorah laid a limp Daenerys down onto the bed and moved to the woman, holding his hands out for Rhaego's body. "Give him to me," he commanded, his voice sounding stronger than he felt by tenfold. Mirri wiped the baby off a little, then turned him over to Jorah, who clutched him tenderly to his chest, just as he had done with his own dying infant son. Only Rhaego had already left his body, to be born again in another time, to someone else.

Jorah looked back at Daenerys and Khal Drogo, side by side on their marriage bed, both beyond any aid he could give them. He left them to the godswife of the Lhazareen and stepped out into the sun, holding all the hopes and dreams of the khalasar in his hands, and he was unable to save the boy.

All out war had already broken on the other side of that tent, Khal Drogo's blood riders fighting to seize the spoils before dispersing back to the Dothraki Sea. Jorah walked through the heart of the fighting, unnoticed and untouched, seeking out Daenerys' handmaidens for a blanket and some water. Screams of dying men and women fell on his ears, deafened by the task he had put upon himself to accomplish, his grief for a child that was not his weighing heavily on his heart. He was drifting on a sea of grief, made immeasurably larger by the unresolved sadness of his own son's death.

Reaching Irri, he stood in front of her, and moved his hands so she could see the cause of his crushing sadness. She made to take the baby from him, but he recoiled from her hands, holding Rhaego to him delicately. "I need a blanket for him, and enough water to bathe him," he requested gruffly. "I want him to be clean and ready when she wakes and wants to see him."

"Ser Jorah . . . he needs a woman until Khaleesi awakes," Irri stammered.

Tears burned his eyes then. "No," he whispered. "He doesn't."

Doreah, with arms full of Daenerys' things, dropped what she was carrying and sent up the traditional wail of grief and death, the women in the surrounding area stopping to do the same, despite the deafening battle happening around them. Irri began to sob, and again tried to take the baby from Jorah, but he repeated his request, sending both girls running for what he needed, and stood, helplessly holding the tiny boy, the rest of the world making less sense than it had even the day before.

Hours later, he sat in his small tent, holding the baby he had washed and swaddled in his last clean shirt, a blanket small enough apparently impossible to locate. No matter, he was attended in love, Jorah reminded himself, and knew it would be important to Daenerys that her son had had been held the entire time he'd been out of her womb.

He stared at the boy's face, so perfectly formed. He could see Daenerys in his newborn face, the lips and chin mostly, but the dark hair was definitely Drogo's, long and straight and covering the entire top of his head. Rhaego looked like he was merely sleeping, though his body was cold and unmoving.

"Come," he whispered. "Let's go sit with your mother and father for awhile. I want her to see you before we need to bury you. I want her to wake and see you to say goodbye."


	2. Chapter 2

The desert night chill pressed in on everything, biting through the thin blanket that covered Daenerys, who huddled in her makeshift bed, acutely aware of how alone she was. Most of her possessions, and all of Drogo's, had gone into the pyre to travel with him to the Night Lands. She shivered and tried to bury herself further under the blanket. The fire had been so hot, lying next to his body on the pyre as she watched his spirit mount the horse and ride to the stars. She pressed her face down into her _hrakkar_ pelt, battling back the unbidden memory, the pain in her chest as she had whispered, "Goodbye, my Sun and Stars." The eggs had called to her then, and her dragons' cries for help to be free of their eggs had taken over her grief.

She pulled her feet up, tucking her knees against her chest as she lay on her side, no longer having the obstacle of a wiggling baby within her. She clutched at the small blanket that was meant for Rhaego, holding it fiercely and tightly against her chest, one of the last pieces of evidence that he had existed at all. Dany had hoped that if she held on tight enough, it would distract her from the pain radiating through her chest and heart.

She knew Doreah and Irri were sleeping just on the other side of the tent, and she wanted to call out to them and have them come sleep with her to keep her warm, but her pride wouldn't let her. She knew that if they were to join her, then the tears would come, her heart aching for her Sun and Stars, for their lost baby boy who was meant to save the world. No more. She refused to give in to the urge, refused to let that damned witch have the satisfaction, even after death. Dany wished that climbing onto Drogo's pyre had taken her with him to the Night Lands, instead of leaving her with her dragons and only the memory of him and their son, leaving her with full, aching breasts and painfully empty arms.

Her chest heaved in the silence, and she swallowed thickly, her throat constricted and painful. _NO_, she told herself. _Not tonight. Not ANY night._ _The Mother of Dragons does not cry._ _You're stronger than that, better than that. You are a Khaleesi, and by rights the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. _Despite her self-chastisement, the tears began to flow hotly down her face, searing her cold cheeks. She breathed deeply through her mouth, forcing it in and out slowly, not wishing her sniffles to wake her handmaids.

Her suppressing efforts were in vain. She quietly succumbed to her tears, her sobs quickly mounting as they wracked her entire body. Nothing else existed except the dark hole where everyone she knew and loved had gone. Her arms hurt as she clutched them around herself, desperate to hold the little baby boy she had waited so long to see but had never rested her eyes upon. Her sobs turned to wails in the darkness, and yet no one came to her, as though no one remained to hear her cries. She pulled a shaking hand up to her face, and could still smell the smoke and ash from the pyre as she tried to smother her own cries.

She woke as the sun set, curled up in her bed, head pounding and feeling as sick as she had the one night she'd drank too much wine. She crawled out of her sleeping space, muscles stiff and aching, and reached the doorway of the makeshift shelter her handmaidens had constructed for her. Dragging herself out, she sat leaning against one of the wooden poles holding the structure together. Ser Jorah was sitting nearby, waiting for her, and scooted close enough to sit next to her, but kept a respectable space between them. He brought a skin of water up to her lips, and patiently waited as she drank, not saying a word.

"You were spared for a reason, Khaleesi," he whispered softly. "You have great things you need to accomplish before rejoining the Khal."

She shook her head slowly, and closed her eyes, refusing to believe his words. Her voice was gone; she couldn't even whisper her protests.

"Khal Drogo loved you, even though his tongue had no word for it. I saw it in his eyes whenever his gaze fell on you. He will visit you from the Night Lands in your dreams, Khaleesi. He is watching over you, and wants to see the great things you will do with your life. Trust in that, even if you believe nothing else for the rest of your days," Jorah insisted, deciding to disregard protocol and brushed her hair back from her face, forcing her to look at him. "You will be stronger now that you've had this time of mourning. We've been waiting for it, and waiting for you to accept what it means."

She met his eyes briefly, and then turned away. No amount of comfort was going to seep through the chill in her body.

Ser Jorah helped her to her feet and then watched as she slowly made her way out into the evening air. She was still holding her son's blanket in one limp hand, and for a moment she looked like a little girl herself with a simple comfort item in tow. He wished it were so, that she was still only a small child that he could gather in his arms and hold to comfort her. He ached with her even though Rhaego was not his son. He felt responsible for the baby's death and responsible for her pain now.

He has stood by her side silently for too long, he realized, looking away when it mattered the most. He was afraid of seeing accusation in those violet eyes, as she would quietly press her forearm against her chest, grimacing in pain before sighing and adjusting her top, her engorged breasts releasing the unneeded milk. He had looked away as she had walked with the remains of her khalasar, her hands gripping her upper arms, holding herself so tightly her fingers left bruises on her pale, tender flesh. He had looked away from her awkward gait, her body torn and wounded from the birth of a baby who had never been placed in his mother's arms before being buried in the hot sand of the desert, not old enough to be put on the pyre with his father. Rhaego would have to be born again, in another time and to someone else.

Jorah swallowed the lump rising in his throat, watching his khaleesi walk away. Her shoulders were hunched slightly, her walk slow. He took a small drink from the water skin at his side, unable to watch even now. _You are one cowardly man,_ he thought, letting the water slide down his throat and wishing for the fermented mare's milk or even an acidic wine to burn in its place, numbing him from it all.

The khalasar camped at the edge of the Red Waste for another night before packing up its meager supplies and population, Daenerys at the head of it, leading her silver mare, a blanket wrapped around her shoulders despite the heat.

She ignored the clicking and squealing of her dragons. They were caged and mounted on another horse, trailing behind their Mother and beseeching her with their cries, but they fell on deaf ears. She simply walked, holding the tiny blanket to her chest as she did, unconsciously putting one foot in front of the other, unable to ignore the pain between her legs, the heaviness and aching of her sex forcing her to slow her walk more than she cared to.

In the hot noonday sun, she stopped to rest, her khalasar immediately stopping with her, waiting for her direction. Without a word, she sat down in the shadow of her mare and stared out into the desert, the rocks and sand seeming endless to her eyes. _No hope,_ she thought. _We can't survive long enough to cross this._

Ser Jorah approached her. "Shall we stop here for the day, Khaleesi?" he asked quietly, prompting her to look vaguely in his direction.

"No," she said, her voice raspy and harsh sounding to her own ears. "Just let me rest a minute. It hurts to walk. Just for a minute."

He brought water to her lips, but she pushed the vessel away. "Give it to someone who wants to survive, Jorah," she whispered. "I don't want it."

"We need you to have it, my Queen," he murmured back. "Your khalasar will be killed without a leader, and this . . . this stand against the Dothraki will be for naught. Make their deaths mean something, Khaleesi. Avenge your husband and son by living and not admitting defeat in the Red Waste. You will disappear from the world here, and no one will be left to remember your name."

Her eyes met his, and he nearly fell to his knees at the sight of such pain in their violet blue depths. It cut him deeper than any blade could reach. He held her gaze as long as he could, feeling the icy chill of despair seep into his soul directly from hers before he had to look away. _Always looking away,_ he chastised himself.

"You can't give up. The Khal wants you to finish this, Daenerys," Jorah said forcefully, trying a different tact.

Her eyes snapped up to his and he froze. "Khal Drogo wants nothing, Jorah. He is dead." Her words slashed at her own heart. "And if any one had any feeling or sense at all, they would have cut me down so I could have been on that pyre with him. Rhaego and I belonged there with him! I'm nothing here. I'm what's left when everyone else is gone." _Rhaella, Aegon, Rhaegar . . . Viserys._

"You are what's left because you're meant to be, Khaleesi," Jorah replied evenly. "Of that, I'm absolutely sure."

"I wish I could believe that." She looked out to the endless red baked earth in front of her.

"You should."

"'Should' applies not to queens and khaleesis, Jorah. You do not command me," she bristled, seeming to rally herself.

_Now we're getting somewhere, _he thought, encouraged. "Then command me, my Queen. Guide me, and I will lead until you are recovered."

...

She felt a touch on her face. Opening her eyes slowly, she found herself looking into the eyes of her beloved, his rough fingers touching her cheek softly, the morning light shining golden and warm in their home. He smiled at her before letting his eyes follow his fingers, watching his touch as he so often had.

"Drogo," she sighed.

He said nothing, just traced her face gently as he had so many mornings before leaving their tent for the day. She closed her eyes against the tears, wanting to just _feel_ him near. She felt his tender kiss on her mouth, could even taste the sweetness of his breath as it mingled with hers.

She awoke with a start, the tent dark and cold. Her breath caught in her throat as she choked back a sob. _Gone_, her mind whispered. _He's gone. He's not coming back._ A now familiar aching cramp began to build in her breasts, and she quickly pressed her arm against herself, not wanting the milk to soak through her last clothes.

By morning, she was feverish, the pain in her breasts mounting to the peak of her tolerance. "Milk fever," Irri said softly to Doreah after seeing the blotchy red and inflamed tissue. "Search the khalasar and see if any mothers still have a living baby the khaleesi could feed for a little while."

One mother was found, her tiny daughter almost dead from heat and starvation. Doreah brought them both. Irri took the baby to Daenerys, gently explaining what had to be done, how her milk could save the baby, but it could end her own life if not drained. If the infection were allowed to spread, unchecked, Dany would be more than feverish by the day's end.

Dany listened sadly, and passively allowed the baby to be brought to her breast. She cried out from the blinding pain as the babe began to suckle softly, so weak from the journey she could barely swallow. Daenerys didn't touch her, couldn't even bring herself to look at the child, but simply let Irri hold her in position and tend to her. After an hour of sleeping, Irri brought the baby back to nurse the other side. She had grown stronger after just one feeding, and was eager for more. Dany cried the whole time and turned her face away, still refusing to look down at the baby or hold her. _My son should be there, not you, stranger's child. Rhaego, my beautiful Rhaego, where have you gone? Who buried you? Did they wrap you in a blanket? Did someone carefully tend to your little body before putting you in the ground?_

"You're saving this child's life, Khaleesi," Irri whispered softly. "She may yet live."

"Don't," Daenerys' quiet warning silenced her handmaid. "Just let her feed, I don't want Rhaego's milk to go to waste, but I don't want her to see my face. I'm not her mother. I'm not anyone's mother."

"You are Rhaego's mother, Khaleesi. You will always be," Irri asserted softly. "He will live again."

"There will be none to follow him," Dany whispered. "I won't marry again, and there will be no more children, and no talk of more children, Irri."

"As you wish, Khaleesi," Irri said sadly. As soon as the baby released Daenerys' breast, she was taken back to her mother outside the tent.

Dany again rested in her bed, and permitted silent tears flow. _This is the last time I indulge in this,_ she thought. _We must cross the Red Waste; we must find safety until I can return to Westeros. I must lead these people._


	3. Chapter 3

A warm breeze whispered through the sheer silken curtains hanging from the open windows, the scent of the sea and perfumed incense swirled around Daenerys' bedchamber, stimulating her as she entered, exhausted and dirty from the Red Waste. Riches greater than she'd ever known, even in Illyrio's manse in Pentos, went into the decoration of this one room. The wall hangings looked to be embossed with gold, the various vases of flowers and bowls of fruit were works of art beyond their common uses.

She quickly discarded her boots; one heel broken beyond what she thought could be repaired. The woven carpet was soft and luxurious to her weary feet, and silenced her steps as she looked around the room.

The bed beckoned her, the first she'd seen since the burning of Drogo's pyre. She quickly squeezed her eyes shut at that thought. "If I look back I'm lost," she whispered to herself, and allowed herself to be led into an adjacent room for a bath.

It took both handmaidens and two refills of hot water to get their khaleesi clean. She drifted for a few minutes in the hot water, her skin tingling from the harsh scrubbing, reveling at how good it felt to be clean. Her hair was freshly washed and then wrapped in linen to keep it from tangling, so she leaned back on it as a pillow for her head. Irri poured oil in the bathwater, and the room filled with the scent of spiceflowers and cinnamon. She immediately wished that Irri had chosen something else, as it was the oil that Drogo had so loved on her skin. She fought the memories of him dragging his nose along her back, kissing her gently as his beard tickled her skin, drawing in her scent before taking her from behind, waiting for her to cry out in pleasure before finding his own. It was the scent of their love.

As she soaked, the memory of her fever dream flooded her mind, her fight to survive the milk fever overcome by the sensation that Drogo was with her, urging her to not fall into the blackness of death with him. "Too soon," he had said to her urgently, his face so close to hers that their noses had touched. In her delirium, she thought he'd really been there with her, that it all had been one horrifyingly dreadful nightmare, and she had reached out for him. "Not yet. Fight like you've never fought, Daenerys. You have too much life yet to live. Be as strong as a blood rider, my Khaleesi. Live." Her fever broke and she had awakened eagerly, desperate to see his face, to feel his touch, only to have the pain return tenfold when Irri and Doreah had to explain to her all over again that he was dead.

Doreah came in, and sighed quietly at Dany's silent tears she was steadfastly ignoring. "Here, Khaleesi, let's get you out of here," she whispered, touching her softly on the shoulder. "I ought to have found something different for you. I am to blame." Doreah helped her from the tub, and quietly hummed a soothing song as she wiped the water from Dany's skin. Fresh clothing had been laid out, but Daenerys walked through the room nude, enjoying the breeze on her skin, a cool and soothing kiss after weeks in the burning sun.

She went directly to the bed, but stopped short next to it, suddenly unsure. She did not want to dream. "Khaleesi?" Irri asked softly, coming to her side, trying to see what had stopped Dany from pulling back the coverlet and slipping in the bed. Dany looked at Irri, then back at the bed. "It's . . . nothing," she said, and then with a deep breath, she climbed in the bed and lay her head down on the soft pillows. She squeezed her eyes shut tightly, the tension in her whole body refusing to relax.

The handmaidens went about the room quietly, pulling curtains closed, shading the room from the afternoon's desert sun. Dany listened to them as she feigned sleep, letting out a deep sigh once she knew they were gone. The bed was soft, the padding firm yet pleasantly yielding to her body. The whole thing was scented with flowers, the purple stalked ones that grew everywhere around here. It was light and fresh, not cloying or overly sweet. It smelled clean, with a pleasant mix of grass with it, and it was all she could do to not rub her face in the bed to escape the rich sweetness of the spiceflowers on her skin.

She soon drifted, her body warm and finally melting into the bed as her breathing slowed. Warmth pressed down on her from all sides, light gleaming in from the shadows. She opened her eyes, slowly taking in the familiar surroundings of the tent pavilion she shared with Drogo. Her bed. Her blankets and pelts strewn over her body, making her too warm. Swiftly she kicked them off, standing in her long sandsilk dressing gown, the tent silent and glowing in the morning sun.

She could hear the day crickets rasping out their strange music outside, the sounds of grazing horses, the wind through the grass. No people though, no sounds of a bustling khalasar that she'd grown so used to; children crying and laughing, building and tearing down of tents, animals being slaughtered for food. So silent it was, she had to go out and look.

Stepping out onto the vast and empty grassland, she quickly spotted her tall husband leading his red stallion and her silver mare toward water. Her throat painfully knotted, and her chest seized in a sharp stab that she couldn't escape. She wanted to run to him, throw her entire aching body into his large and comforting arms, but she forced herself to look away, forced herself to wake. She sat up in the bed in Qarth, her breath coming in painful gasps as she fought tears that were no longer burned away by fire.

Her anxiety had upset her dragons, Drogon in particular. He started to scream his high pitched wail, so she got up and removed him from his cage for a few moments, stroking his neck and whispering soothingly to him, stroking his throat and hackles. He settled quickly, and she returned him to his cage with one last loving pat. She turned away from him and wandered over to the large table in the corner of the room, the dim light just enough for her to see the magnificent water vessel and an actual glass cup for drinking. It had been since Pentos that she'd seen glass. Drinking deeply of the clear and sweet water, she found she could breathe a little easier, the pain in her chest not as sharp or overwhelming. The dream had felt so real.

She quickly rearranged the pillows, laying one lengthwise against her back, imitating another person's presence, and laid back down. She drew in a few deep cleansing breaths of incense-perfumed air, and let herself sink back down into a deep sleep.


	4. Chapter 4

If you recognize it, you know it's not mine. It's short, but it didn't look right added on to a different chapter, nor did anything fit added to this one. :)

* * *

Her dragons were gone. Her babies that she'd gotten so attached to, started to love. Empty cages, and a noiseless room with so much death. Irri on the floor, dead and colder than Dany thought the warm weather would allow her to be. She felt sick, dizzy with grief and anger. Doreah was missing; Daenerys dreaded to think what had happened to her if she'd been carried off still alive. Her mind churning as fast as her stomach, she turned on Xaro Xoan Doxos, beyond caring what he would think of her, forgetting to play coy to his flattery. He wanted babies with her. She hated him for it, hated that even if she had wanted to, she couldn't. She hated that he was trying to take Drogo's place, a place that was not going to be available to be taken for many years, if ever. She could feel the anger and hate rising in her in a hot wave, could feel the warmth in her skin rising as sure as fire gives off heat.

Nearly all of her small khalasar were dead, bodies strewn carelessly over the flagstones like so many discarded toys. Only the men that had chaperoned her with Xaro had remained alive. She was too angry to feel grief; there would be time for that later. Where was Ser Jorah? She hoped he had stayed overlong at the docks.

She stared at their empty cages. "Where are my dragons?" she cried out, her rage giving strength to her voice that she did not feel. Gods, she just wanted to coil up on the bed and cry, her last connection to her life with Drogo gone. Instead, sickened to the point of near vomiting, she paced and stared at the empty cages.

She stood in the room and watched as her Dothraki men and Irri were respectfully removed from her rooms. She watched helplessly as the carpet Irri had died upon was rolled and taken away, replaced by another that looked nearly identical. Was it really so easy? It was as though the murders had never taken place. Her dear friend was gone, and the other was missing. Drogo was gone. Rhaego was gone. She had never felt so alone in her life.

The footsteps and the rattle of a sword in a scabbard approached. She heaved a quiet sigh of relief. "You came back," she said tearfully, her eyes fixing on Ser Jorah's. She finally felt safe enough that she could cry without anyone judging her.

Jorah was out of breath. "As soon as I heard," he assured her. "You know anything?"

The tears rolled down her cheeks as she shook her head. "Irri is dead," she said simply, the words cutting into her deeply. _My friend. My confidante. She knew before anyone else did that Rhaego grew within me. _

_"_I know," Jorah said compassionately. "She was a good . . . "

"She is dead," Dany repeated, desperately trying to quell the swelling hysteria within. "She died alone. She died for me and I couldn't protect her."

"Doreah?" he asked.

Dany shook her head slightly, the tears coming faster and choking her voice. "We can't find her. She must be dead, too. I led my people out of the Red Waste and into the slaughter house."

"I should have been here," he lamented.

"You went to find me a ship," she answered, hoping she sounded forgiving.

"My place is by your side. I shouldn't have left you alone with these people," he said in disgust.

She looked at him curiously. "These people . . ."

"They are not to be trusted," he whispered to her.

"Then who is to be trusted?" she asked. "Who are my people? The Targaryens? I only knew one, my brother, and he would have let a thousand men rape me if it had gotten him the crown. The Dothraki? Most of them turned from me the day Khal Drogo fell from his horse."

"Your people are in Westeros," he answered her, trying to gently refocus her.

"The people in Westeros don't know I'm alive," she retorted.

"They will soon enough," Jorah promised.

"And then what? They'll pray for my return, they'll wave dragon banners and shout my name?" she demanded, mocking the words that Magister Illyrio had used when placating her brother. She turned to walk away. "That's what my brother believed and he was a fool."

"You are not your brother, trust me, Khaleesi," Jorah answered her patiently.

She rolled her eyes and crossed her arms, hugging herself. It gave no comfort. "There it is . . . 'trust me'," she mocked. "And it's you I should trust, Ser Jorah? Only you?" she was silent for a moment, her next words felt bitter and cold in her heart. "I don't need trust any longer, I don't want it and I don't have room for it." She ached for Drogo. She had trusted him with everything. Then that witch murdered her baby, and left her with a husband that could barely swallow and breathe, let alone lead a horde. Abandoned by those she trusted.

"You're too young to be so . . . " he reached out, and could feel the heat on her skin before he even had a chance to touch her.

"And you are too familiar," she snapped. The last man to touch her was Drogo. She would keep it that way as long as she possibly could. She saw the flash of hurt on Jorah's face as he withdrew his hand. It hurt her, too. But her heart hurt more for Drogo. She wanted his arms around her so tightly that this horrible sinking ache would go away. She'd give anything in that moment to have her baby boy and her Khal with her, even her dragons. Yes, she would give up the dragons if she had the choice. It didn't matter. Everything was gone.

Jorah stepped back a few paces. "Forgive me, Khaleesi," he said respectfully, his head bowed. "No one can survive in this world without help. No one," he emphasized. "Let me help you. Please." _He's begging me_, she realized. "Tell me how."

She understood now, Xaro's question of Jorah's love. Jorah did love her, but in a way that she could never reciprocate in any manner other than his friendship. _Oh gods, why?_ She steeled herself against his pleading desperation for her affection. "Find my dragons."

Without a word, he was leaving. As his footsteps faded away across the stones, she sank down onto the bed and covered her face with her hands, sobbing silently into them as she had done to hide her tears from her brother. She turned and buried her face into the soft pillow and let her sobs come, shaking her whole body with her grief.


	5. Chapter 5

Within the captain's quarters aboard the _Balerion_, Daenerys paced angrily, chewing her thumbnail and considering her options. She needed an army. Kraznys mo Nokloz had one, no matter how unappealing he and the 8,000 were, no matter how he insulted her, no matter how devastated she'd been as she'd counted one newborn baby for each Unsullied. 8,000 babies. 8,000 mothers left bereft, just like her. But an army she must have, and he had what she wanted.

She sighed and stopped by the large table bolted to the floor in the middle of the room and poured herself a generous cup of wine. She drank deeply before continuing to pace, keeping hold of her cup, refilling it as she walked and drank, rolling the situation over and over in her head, her irritation dissipating as the warmth in her body grew. She regretted slapping Jorah only now that she was pliant with wine. She was not about to apologize for it as he had earned that slap through disrespecting her in front of her khalasar, but she still felt regret. Her faithful bear. She supposed Queens learned to live with regrets. Regrets and grief, loss and heartache.

What seemed like hours later, she clumsily stumbled to her bed, stripping off her clothes without managing to tear them, and pulled the rough blanket over herself, not bothering with her hair or where her cup had fallen. There were no handmaidens now to help her with these things, they were all dead. Everyone was dead, their blood left on the ground and in Xaro Xoan Doxos' house. Blood of her blood. All she wanted was to sleep without dreaming, without thinking of all the people who left her behind.

She awoke abruptly, startled out of her deep sleep by a familiar sound. The rumbling snore belonging to the only man she'd ever watch sleep. She was back, her furs and cushions, the marriage bed she shared with Drogo. It even smelled as she remembered, her spiceflower perfume, the rich clove massaging oil, the heady scent of nights of lovemaking mingled with the fresh air and clean linens. In the dim morning light, he slept next to her, his uniqueness of wine, sun, and a thousand fires bringing tears of grief and joy to her eyes. She lay next to him for a few moments, simply looking at him before she could no longer bite back her sobs, and she buried her face in his chest. His strong arms immediately gathered her close, the way she wished he had done in the House of the Undying. He held her tightly as she began crying in earnest, stroking her hair, kissing her forehead gently.

"_I wondered when you would come,"_ he said quietly. "_You ran from me when I tried to come to you. The Great Stallion refused to let me try again to see your dreams."_

"_Am I dead?"_ she sniffled, her hand resting on his chest, stroking his skin lightly, asking him the same question she had in the House of the Undying.

"_No,"_ he chuckled. "_If you were dead, you wouldn't be crying."_

_"How did I get here?" _She whispered so quietly she almost didn't hear herself.

"_You wanted to come, and I was waiting for you,"_ he said simply. He lifted her chin tenderly with his thumb, guiding her to look at his face. "_I miss you, my little Moon." _He kissed her softly.

_"Drogo . . . "_ Her voice broke off as a sob tore through her throat. "_Rhaego . . . "_

_"Shhh, don't worry about him now," _he said gently, and kissed her again. "_You were betrayed. He will be born again, but not to us."_

_"I wanted him so much." _As much as she tried to keep it steady, her voice was a broken sob over her words.

_"I did, too. I wanted to see you as a mother, my Daenerys. I wanted for you to birth him in the peace and quiet of our home in Vaes Dothrak, not on our way to war in the desert. I wanted him to grow and mount a horse of his choosing, arakh at his side."_

_"There will be no more children for me, my Sun and Stars,"_ she said sadly, the ache in her throat creeping up again, choking her words, her dark secret welling up into her heart and making it hurt. "_The maegi cursed my womb. She hurt me."__  
_

_"Do not concern yourself with this matter for now,"_ he murmured quietly. He held her tightly for a few moments, letting her gather herself, before he continued._ "You need a strong khalasar. You can get the 8,000, but you will need cunning and strategy. Keep your knowledge of his world from him. Do not speak his tongue. Be as he assumes, and then fuck him over with his own cleverness. You have what he wants."_

She smiled at that. Her dragons. Her dragons were the answer she was seeking.

_"Yes,"_ she said simply, resting her head on his chest, just feeling him under her, how _alive_ he felt. _"I don't want to wake," _she said quietly.

"_You must, Moon of my life. You have your iron chair to claim."_

_"I do. I must. But not for a few more hours?"_

_"Soon."_

He held her quietly, the sunlight becoming brighter and warming the inside of the tent. She listened to the grass rustle in the wind outside, horses grazing, the day crickets rasping their wings, but she clung to the sound of his breath, the rise and fall of his chest under her head, the way his fingers gently combed through her hair, the wonderful sound of his heart beating under her ear.

She scooted over, tucking one leg on top of his, maneuvering herself to lie on top of him, pressing her body as closely to his as she could get. He made no argument, reaching for her and securing her into place, tucking her head under his chin, stroking her back with rough hands. "_Your skin has always been so soft,"_ he whispered.

"_And yours has always been warm,"_ she returned, and raised her head to bring her mouth down onto his, meeting no resistance.

His hands immediately were in her hair, guiding her head and mouth in a deep kiss. He tasted the same, she realized, and gasped quietly for breath. She was instantly ready for him, her Sun and Stars flooding her with desire for the first time since the last time he had touched her. She began grinding her hips onto his, feeling his body responding to hers, the dark and deep pleasure starting to coil in her body, making her whimper softly into his mouth.

He pulled away abruptly. _"Daenerys," _he sighed_. "You will wake soon. I will hold you until you do."_

_"NO! I need you," _she panted, nuzzling back to kiss his mouth again. _"I need you. Don't let me go back."_

She sat up, panting and aching from Drogo's touch, the dark cabin of the _Balerion_ creaking and rocking. They were leaving? It felt like much rough, open water instead of Slavers Bay. She immediately jumped down from the bunk and dressed, struggling to ignore the throbbing need in her body. She had been more aroused than she'd been in a long time, Drogo's touch forcing her body to remember how it had felt. How could she have forgotten?

Ser Jorah stood on the deck, his face set and grim. "Why are we leaving?" she demanded him, pushing back the sudden urge to apologize to him, the faint bruise of her slap blooming on his cheek. _I didn't think I struck him that hard,_ she wondered. _My faithful bear, I'm so sorry._

"Your Grace was disgusted with the Unsullied. We're heading for Pentos, my Queen," he replied simply, unconsciously raising his hand to his cheek, and again she felt regret. She couldn't let him see it, though. She needed him disciplined and with a clear head.

"No! Turn back. I want them. I know how to get them all. Every Unsullied will march for me," she asserted, gathering strength from Drogo's whispered words in her heart.

He looked at her for a long moment as though she'd gone mad, then thought better of it at her infuriated glare. "Your Grace," he acquiesced, bowing slightly and heading to the helm at a jog.

She turned and went back to her cabin and lay down on the bed, still clothed. She turned her head to the pillow, disappointment seeping through her as she realized it only smelled of her. The ache had left, her body no longer feeling the desperate need it had as she'd kissed her husband. Empty, she realized. She felt empty. Alone. Almost as empty as when she awoke and Rhaego was no longer within her. She wondered again if someone had buried him, or left him out and exposed like any other Dothraki babe. Dany couldn't bear to think of it, and chased away the painful ache in her heart with the last of the wine.


	6. Chapter 6

The heat was making her restless. The march to Yunkai was almost over. Her 8,000 Unsullied, her khalasar, and her Queensguard - Ser Jorah and Ser Barristan, were glad to stop for awhile to water their horses and rest. She was not. After listening to the two men trade stories of Westeros, of jousts and political intrigue, she stalked back to her horse and led it to water. She was a nice little mare, but not nearly so highborn as the spirited silver filly that Drogo had given her as a wedding gift. Still, it was nice to have a decent mount again. Her heart thumped painfully in her chest for just a moment. _Drogo._ She shook her head and gave the mare her head so she could drink.

The talk of politics and intrigue continued, she assumed. They were out of range for her to hear their actual words, but their voices still carried across the water of the oasis. Daenerys realized she really ought to pay more attention to them, so she could learn more about the people she was going to rule once she sat on the Iron Throne. It certainly couldn't hurt, could it?

She permitted them to flank her as they rode, and she kept quiet as they talked. Ser Barristan made some noise about boring her with his talk, but she waved absently at him, assuring him that he indeed was not, and that it was good to hear of home. Still, the talk turned from politic to joust. Ser Barristan was talking of The Mountain losing to Ser Loras Tyrell.

"Tyrell? Their seat is . . . Highgarden, isn't it? Gold rose with green background?" she asked, searching her brain for the sigils her brother had taught her so long ago.

"Yes, Your Grace," Ser Barristan answered.

"The Mountain," she mused. "The Lannister puppet that murdered my sister in law and niece and nephew. He is still allowed at court after the murder of innocent children, the rape and murder of the former queen?"

"Sadly, yes, Your Grace," he answered, and she could hear the disgust in his voice.

"That will need to change," she observed mildly, not allowing her true outrage show.

"Yes, Your Grace," he agreed vehemently.

. . . . . . . . .

Daenerys paced in her tent that night, out of wine and full of grief. _This has to end, this wondering,_ she admitted. _I can't carry this with me forever._

She allowed Missandei to guide her to sit, and closed her eyes as the girl began to brush out her platinum hair, making it shine like a river of warmest silver. It soothed and calmed her a little, but also reminded her of Irri's careful attention. Irri could plait hair like no one she had ever seen, even in Qarth. She missed the braids in her hair, though Missandei had plenty of skills with twisting her hair into delightful concoctions more suited to a Queen of Westeros. Even still . . .

"Would you please send Ser Jorah to me, Missandei? I find I have a need to speak with him privately," Dany asked quietly. _I can't carry this with me forever_, she repeated to herself. As she waited, she pulled on her own dressing gown over her linen shift, more for modesty than protection from the cold.

Her faithful bear approached, she could hear his labored breath and clink of breastplate. "Come," she called.

"Khaleesi, you sent for me?" he asked, his eyes on the floor.

She stopped pacing and just stood for a moment, looking at him."Ser Jorah, look at me please," she said softly, approaching him and taking his hand. "I have questions, and I'm hoping you may have answers for me."

"Anything, Your Grace," he answered, relieved at meeting her gaze and returned her hand's embrace. He let her go and watched as she resumed pacing for a little while, patiently waiting for her request as she calmed her more than subtle agitation.

"Rhaego . . ." she stopped, swallowing her tears, swallowing the intense ache immediately rising in her throat. She crossed her arms tightly against her chest. _Gods_, it hurt to even say his name.

"Rhaego," he whispered, his heart breaking with her, his guilt over taking her into that tent rising to the forefront of his mind.

Her pause was long as she struggled with her words. "Where did he go?" Her question sounded childish even to her ears, her voice small and broken. She wished she could retract the question and pull her own words back into her mouth, but it was too late. She tightened her arms over her chest even more, the instinctive urge to quell the rising pain in them overcoming everything.

Jorah looked puzzled for a moment, unsure what she was truly asking. "To the Nightlands, Khaleesi. He will be born again." His words sounded hollow instead of comforting as they were intended.

"N . . . no. His . . . body? My son's body?" She was shaking in her efforts to stay calm, holding herself so tightly that she was losing circulation in her arms.

Jorah guided her to sit in a chair, and he knelt on the carpeting at her feet. He took her hands tenderly, unwrapping them from her ribs, and looked up into her face as he began to tell her.

"The maegi delivered him without aid, Khaleesi. You fainted from the heat and pain. The witch delivered him, and I took him." Jorah looked her directly into her eyes. "_I_ took him and I bathed him . . . " Daenerys began to lose her battle with her tears as she gasped in relief. "And I swaddled him in my last clean shirt. I waited all day, hoping you would wake to at least see him before . . ."

"Before what?" she whispered, tears burning in her eyes. She _would not_ let them fall.

"Before I took two of the stronger men left and we dug him a grave deep enough to keep his body from ever being violated, Khaleesi. I marked it with stones and later with bits of the shells from the dragons. I will be able to find it again should you wish to go there."

She was fighting her tears. Jorah rose up on his knees and touched her face softly until she looked at him, letting her see his face and his own grief for her child. "Khaleesi, Daenerys, My Queen, you need to know the witch _lied_ to you. He did not have wings, he was not deformed in any way. He was beautiful and perfect. He had a head full of dark hair, and his mouth was shaped like yours."

She nodded slightly, and leaned forward, resting her head on his shoulder while she finally gave in and sobbed. Jorah stood for a moment, unsure what he should do before following his instincts and brought his arms up around her, stroking her hair softly, letting her cry. "He was beautiful and perfect, my Queen."

She pulled back from him after a moment, composing herself once more. "H . . . how small . . . was . . . "

Jorah used his hands to show her how small her son had been, ignoring his own tears as he pressed his cheek to her forehead to keep her head on his shoulder. "I held him for you the entire time, my Queen. I kept praying to the gods for him to just take one breath, _one breath_, so I could bring him to you, even to the Khal if Drogo had recovered."

"He was too small to live, wasn't he?"

"I am neither maester nor midwife, I cannot say for certain. I know my own son was about that size, and only took a dozen breaths before he took no more."

She kept her face downward, nodding as she swallowed the rest of her grief. Her questions were answered, Rhaego again a beautiful dream in her mind. "I needed to know," she whispered. "It wouldn't leave me alone."

"I agree. I was waiting, I suppose, for a time when the pain wasn't so . . . fresh. Khaleesi." He turned to leave, to give her time to process her grief in his part of the sad tale.

"Ser Jorah?"

He stopped in front of the door, and turned to face her. "Yes, my Queen?"

"Do you often think of your son?"

"Every day, in one way or another, I do." His face was set in grim lines once more despite the still wet tears on his face. Daenerys didn't know if they were his tears or hers and realized after a moment that it didn't matter.

She whispered, more to herself than to him, "How do you bear it? How do you go on?"

"The pain changes with the years, Your Grace. It never leaves, but it changes," he promised her quietly.

She nodded, and whispered, "Thank you."

"My Queen." Jorah ducked out of the tent to give her privacy.

Left alone again, she finally allowed herself to look back on the encounter in the House of the Undying. _Could_ it have been Drogo and Rhaego, truly, not an illusion of what Pryat Pree thought she wanted to see? She had wanted it to be true, that precious time stolen and so far away from reality. Rhaego had been so beautiful and _perfect _that her heart ached. Drogo had sounded and even smelled the same as she remembered, hot sun, grass and horses, fires and sex. She wished she could have just buried her face in his neck and stayed there with them, lost in the snow beyond the Wall she'd only heard about in stories and the books Ser Jorah had given her as a wedding gift.

Daenerys realized she had to go on, even without them. She stopped and smiled to herself. _I already have been__._ Her heart was just now catching up with her body. Could she continue this fight she was bringing to Yunkai? Yes. Yes, she could, and she would. Either she would win another city and free all the slaves, or she could go on her way to the Nightlands. Either would be a step closer in a direction she wanted to go. Life or death would continue, her journey would be what it was to be. Maybe, just maybe to take the city would be better - just for now. "Drogo, wait for me," she whispered to herself, to the night air. "Find my horse, have her wait for me. I'm coming, just not yet."

She slept peacefully that night, Drogo watching her from his own tent with arakh in hand, proud of his little Moon.


	7. Chapter 7

She challenged him with her eyes to look away, look down, and look anywhere but in her eyes. Daario Naharis did not, though she knew he wanted to. _He wants me as a man wants a woman, not just as his Queen._ He kept his eyes on hers, and swore his life to her . . . not only his life, but also his men and his heart. _Another, much handsomer version of Jorah_, she thought. _  
_

Daenerys thought about Daario after he left her tent. He was handsome, more handsome than she knew men could be. His chin was the same Drogo's had been under his beard, strong and masculine. But that's where the similarities ended. Daario had no braid to show his victories, no visible scars to show his bravery, his short dark hair and smooth, pretty face hidden under a short beard. He could be as green a warrior as the grass on the Dothraki Sea for all she knew. A lieutenant. He was now the leader of the Second Sons simply because he had the faster sword. Well, that at least was something, but she had no idea if he could hold his place as captain. If the Second Sons would not listen to their new leader, she would lose them all. Her Unsullied could take them down of course, but not without losses, and loss was something she was not willing to accept if it could be avoided. She wanted the city of Yunkai to give up all it's slaves, and she needed every man that would willingly follow her.

She didn't bother dressing for bed, instead simply lying down on her bed still in her dressing gown, her skin mostly dry from the bath. What little water that was left on her body could easily have been sweat from the heat as much as the scented water from the bath. She closed her eyes, and thought about Daario and his handsome face. Almost too handsome. _He wants me. What would it be like, being with a man again? Would it hurt? _Drogo had been patient and moved slowly with her that first night, despite what he had told his riders the next day. She remembered how scared she had been, but excited, too, as she had removed all the bells in his braid before smoothing out his long, black hair. He had bathed for their wedding night, and his hair had smelled of clove oil. She remembered how his hands had massaged her shoulders and back before pulling her nude form back against his body, warm in the chilling evening. The memory wrapped around her as warm and comforting as her _hrakkar_ pelt.

Startled, she opened her eyes as Missandei carefully covered her with a blanket. "Your Grace," she whispered in her sweet voice, and stroked Dany's hair once. "Go back to where you were, I'm sorry I disturbed you."

"Missandei?" Dany whispered back. "Would you stay with me? I . . . " Her voice trailed off as her young attendant simply moved to the other side of the bed and laid down next to her, tugging the blanket over them both.

"Yes, Your Grace."

Dany allowed her eyes to close once more, comforted by the companionable silence that followed, listening to Missandei breathing next to her. She missed Irri suddenly, a flash of pain suddenly sharp in her throat and chest. She pressed one palm to her chest, trying to keep the pain from bursting out.

. . . .

Drogo was pulling her hand away from her chest, touching her gently between her breasts with one finger, trailing it down to her navel. Her dressing gown had disappeared, much to her amusement. It felt good to experience other emotions other than exhaustion, grief, and fear. Drogo had a way of making her forget those things, not only when he was alive, but now in her nearly nightly dreams of him. She began to wonder if these were really dreams, or if they were even her own.

She turned on her side and smiled at him. "_I'm happy to see you," _she whispered. "_I missed you."_

He made no reply, simply leaning forward and kissing her softly on the lips. He pulled back, and watched her face as he traced her mouth tenderly with his fingers, barely touching her. She brought her hand up to hold his, and scooted closer to him.

_"Drogo,"_ she started quietly, but he brought his fingers to her lips to silence her.

She glanced around the room and sighed happily. Their home in Vaes Dothrak surrounded her, their bedroom dark and cool even on the hottest day. She could hear people moving about outside, horses and goats, laughing children, and even the stream that flowed behind their home. They were muted through the earthen walls, but they were all the sounds of home.

_"Is this where everyone comes, to Vaes Dothrak?" _she asked, looking back to his face.

"_Every Dothraki, with everything we needed in life. The Great Stallion provides well for us, Moon of my Life,"_ he finally said. "_I even get to visit with you once in a while."_

"_I'm just visiting?" _she asked, not sure if the pain in her chest was her grief or death itself.

_"Yes, just visiting."_

_"Drogo," _she began again, needing him to understand.

He met her eyes, and she saw the sadness there in his dark green eyes. Sadness, but acceptance was there, too.

"_You want him,"_ he said quietly.

"_Not as much as I want you. If you were by my side in Yunkai, I wouldn't have looked at him twice,"_ she said with conviction. "_I must do what I must do to live, my Sun and Stars."_

He nodded, quiet for now. He looked around the room, toward the entryway to the front of their home, anywhere but at her. She continued to talk to him, touching him softly on the cheek to get him to look at her again. "_I'm sorry if this hurts you. It hurts me, too. I don't understand it, nor is it entirely welcome. We shared a child, Drogo. Rhaego was ours. That will NEVER change."_

_"But now this man is going to try to claim my wife, and I can do nothing." _His voice was flat as he looked directly into her eyes.

She sighed, her joy at being with him dissolving into sadness. "_I don't want us to use our time together like this,"_ she said tearfully, resting her hands on his strong shoulders. _"You are my Sun and Stars. You always will be, Drogo. I want to come to you when my time is done, and find my place at your side. This," _she gestured to the bed and the room surrounding them, "_This is home. My home. My home is here with you."_

He held her tightly then, so tightly that her ribs began to ache. "_That comforts me mightily, my little Moon," _he whispered in her ear. "_I want that, too. I don't want you going with someone else to a Westerosi place I can't find in the Night Lands. I want to always find you."_

_"I always want to be found, my Sun and Stars," _she murmured back, kissing his ear.

"_Be careful with this man. You know only my ways, to live a life out in the open, for all the stars to see. Not all men live this way."_

_"I know. I admired you for that." _She laid her head down on his chest, resting her hand over his heart. She was always amazed at the strength of its beating, especially now. She remembered how it felt, laying her head down on his rapidly cooling body after his death, hearing nothing in his chest at all. She remembered her tears, her sobs and pinches to her skin to wake herself from what had become her living nightmare. No baby, no husband, all lost in the silent rocks and sand.

_"It was not enough." _He gently wrapped an arm around her shoulders, holding her against him snugly.

_"No, it wasn't. But it was enough for me," _she agreed sadly.

He thought carefully and then asked_, "This man, will he hold you higher in his thoughts than his sword?"_

She thought for a moment, unsure. "I_ don't know."_

"_He _must_. You will need such a man."_

_"I need no man, my Sun and Stars. You were all I wanted," _she answered, trying to keep the bitterness from her words.

_"It's the way of life, Daenerys." _His use of her given name made her look up at him_. "A man needs a woman, and a woman needs a man. You may not want a protector or a husband, but to have them will make life easier. You said yourself, you need to do what is necessary to live."_

_"And for you, my Sun and Stars?"_

_"I'll wait for my wife. She'll be here with me in her own time," _he said, smiling at her_. "I will keep our home ready for her."_

She huffed at his smiling face, amused but a bit frustrated with his attitude.

"_His name is Daario," _she said softly. "_What if I choose to just have him for a short time?"_

_"You may choose to do so. It would make me feel better if you did," _he said, his tone even and light.

Now he was teasing her outright, she knew, and she slapped him lightly on the chest. "_Would it really?"_

_"No." _He chuckled. "_What would make me feel better is to wake next to you every day for the rest of the days and nights here. My time for happiness will come. You carry it with you." _

"_And if Daario and I choose to marry?" _She asked, smiling at him. Even if her interest in him turned to love, she couldn't possibly marry a sellsword. She would have to marry for politics, not love, if it came down to it.

_"I will ensure you dream of me every night until he dies," _he promised gravely.

She laughed outright at that, and Drogo looked at her with love. "_I miss that sound,"_ he said softly. "_Your laugh is a gift to me, Daenerys." _ He leaned over and kissed her then, really kissed her, touching her cheek softly as he did. "_You will not be angry with me if I do not come to you when you're with him?" _he asked as he pulled back from her lips.

"_No, I won't. I wouldn't come to you either, if you were with someone here," _she replied softly_,_ tucking herself into his side.

"_You will wake soon. I will miss you greatly, Daenerys. Find someone you can trust with your life. You deserve to be honored and kept safe." _He kissed her once more.

Dany sat upright in the bed, startling Missandei.

"Your Grace?" she gasped, nearly falling out of the bed.

Dany just looked at her for a moment and simply said, "I think . . . I think that was goodbye."

* * *

So, Season 3 Daario Naharis was disgusting to me. A beardless child posturing to be a man. His very voice repelled me. "Snake oil salesman! Ick, ick, ick!" screamed my brain. It's perfectly ok if you liked him, but I did not. Season 4 Daario is a bit off in the opposite direction. He's too understated, no cockiness or supreme self confidence that Daario is so well known for. Still, I like him better. Dany would find Season 4 Daario more attractive, his facial hair and other features aren't that far off from the Khal's in some regards, in my opinion. Again, just my opinion!


	8. Chapter 8

Daario's hand on hers, guiding her over the map of Yunkai, made her heart leap into her throat. His touch was confident, bold, and warm. She was mildly surprised that he couldn't feel her racing pulse as he touched her. Both Ser Barristan and Ser Jorah were glancing at her, their 'do not touch' policy coming into question in the form of her tolerance of the sellsword's impertinence. They had no way of knowing how he had sworn fealty to her, her dare for him to break eye contact with her as she had exited her bath. It made her flush now, thinking of it, but it had been a show of dignity and strength, not wantonness. Surely Daario knew the difference.

"It's a back gate. My men use the back gates when they visit Yunkai's bedslaves," Daario assured them. His voice sounded intimate to her, a smooth caress to her body, with an equal reaction that she struggled to hide. It brought guilt. She was Khal Drogo's Khaleesi still. He shouldn't be touching her.

"Your men, but not you," Ser Jorah mused, seeking to shame him or catch him out in a lie.

"I have no interest in slaves," Daario shrugged. "A man cannot make love to property."

Ser Jorah met Dany's eyes for a brief moment before looking away. She couldn't help but be amused at Jorah's attempt that had so soundly backfired on him. _Jorah, you're my dearest friend,_ she thought. _But it could never be. You're too tied to my past, no matter how much you may wish it otherwise. _

"This is where we enter the city. Very few guards. They know me. They'll let me inside." Daario sounded absolute. He had no doubts.

"We're not going to sneak an army through a back gate," Ser Barristan asserted, disgruntled. Dany understood. It was like stabbing one's enemy in the back instead of an open and fair fight, and they were not about to act like Lannisters over this.

"I kill the guards. I take your two best men and lead them through the back streets, which I know well, and open the front gates. Then comes the army. Once the walls are breached, the city will fall in hours." For a moment, she thought he sounded too sure of the outcome. She chanced a sideways glance at Jorah, knowing he would protest for her without any prompting.

"Or perhaps you lead me and Grey Worm to the slaughter, cutting the head off our army," Ser Jorah observed. "The masters of Yunkai will pay you your fee and you won't have to split it three ways because you've already slaughtered your partners."

Daario tilted his face toward Jorah more directly. "You have a very suspicious mind," he observed. "In my experience, only dishonest people think this way." Dany kept her silence, feeling as though he were chastising her along with her closest friend for not blindly trusting him.

Jorah held his gaze, unflinching. He turned to Grey Worm. "You command the Unsullied," he said. "What do you think?"

Grey Worm looked startled that anyone would be asking his opinion. His only task was to take orders, not think for himself or his brethren. "You are a leader now," Daenerys reminded him gently, her voice warm and meant to comfort him. "Do you trust him?" She hoped with all her heart that Grey Worm would not defer to Jorah or Selmy, but give his honest opinion. It may have been too much to ask of him so soon, she realized belatedly.

Grey Worm glanced at the men before looking directly at her and answering, "I trust him," he said slowly.

Daenerys looked around at her council. "You leave tonight," she commanded, ending the talk and turning her back to their words as her most trusted men conversed on their way out. She wanted to be alone until nightfall.

After dismissing Missandei, she removed her blue surcoat and stood in her makeshift bedchamber in just her fine linen underdress, so exquisitely woven that it was nearly translucent. The heavy canvas sides of her temporary home were open, but the silken curtains had been drawn, and the late afternoon sun filled the room with a golden glow. Drogon had forsaken his great wooden perch and was stretched out across the carpet near the back, where the sun was strongest, and he purred as he slept. Viserion preened in one corner, his great opalescent scales glowing with astounding beauty in the golden light. Rhaegal had tucked his head under one great wing like a bird of prey as he perched, and Dany knew she would do the same with a blanket over her eyes so she could sleep. Surely sleep would come while she was so well protected.

Slowly, she settled herself into the embrace of her bed, warmed by the sun's caress. It was a great deal smaller than the bed she'd shared with Drogo, but she preferred it that way. She had even gotten rid of the bed she shared with Missandei that one night, deciding a thick and narrow pallet on the carpeted ground was better. If it were large enough for more than just her, it was too big, she reasoned. She used the excuse that it was too extravagant on the road, one less heavy thing to carry, but truly, if there were no large and empty space next to her, it helped her to not feel his absence so keenly. _Drogo, oh gods, Drogo_.

It had been weeks since she'd dreamt of him last, no words of comfort or stolen moments of love for her on the road to Yunkai. She worried that it was because Daario was near her so often. His presence brought about feelings in her that she'd thought had died with Drogo. An unmistakable urge to touch him, to wipe the sweat from his brow, to dare to kiss him to see what it would feel like welled in her more than she cared to admit. She would be lying if she said it was unwelcome, but it made her uncomfortable, too. She loved Drogo. There was no room for anyone else, was there?

She pulled a silk pillow over her eyes to hide her face from the sun's glare. The camp was noisy, and the slight breeze that penetrated the silk draping carried the smell of thousands of unwashed bodies and livestock, but it was more welcome than the silence and perfumed cool darkness of Illyrio Mopatis' home in Pentos. Silence was never good for her. It was the moment before her brother struck her, the long minutes after she had awakened and there had been no baby crying for her, the hour after Khal Drogo struggled for his last breath.

She forced her mind away from her sad thoughts, but they settled on the envy she felt at every freed slave that held an infant to her breast. It rotted in her gut, wrenched her very soul, but it wasn't nearly as horrid as the feeling that would overcome her to see the ones that were about to birth their babes. She had to be careful, her jealousy would make her a slave to it. It was easier to not look, but she must. She was Mhysa, mother to them all.

Dany fell into a fitful sleep, the heat pressing down on her from all sides, assaulting what little peace of mind she had. She dreamt she was back in the House of the Undying, the snow falling so thickly around her that she could barely see her hands in front of her. There was no bitterly cold wind this time, just silent snow falling. Silence. She could see the great tent she'd shared with Drogo in the distance, a brazier lit just in front of it beckoning in it's welcome. Eagerly she struggled in the deep snow to reach it, but it moved away from her just as fast as she was traveling toward it. She quickened her pace, the snow reaching to her knees as she tried to run, but the tent was disappearing into the snow and the trees far ahead, melting from her eyes. She could hear her son crying for her, and she called out to him, "Rhaego! Rhaego, I hear you. I'm coming for you!" His crying was soon muffled by the snow and distance. She fell into the snow, screaming and sobbing in anguish and frustration, the chill seeping past her skin into her bones. It would kill her as surely as a blade, and she suddenly knew fear. Fire was no danger to her, but this ice and cold meant certain death.

Something grabbed her in the swirling snow, and she swung out to fight it, blinded by the thick whiteness in front of her. She screamed and fought with both hands, but found herself bound tightly in the cold. Someone was calling to her, far away, calling out for her, "My Lady, My Queen . . ."

Gasping for breath, she fought to sit up on her small bed, Missandei holding her wrists tightly and with great effort. "I will let go if you stop," she said soothingly. "I didn't want you to harm yourself, Your Grace."

Daenerys gasped and choked back a sob. "I'm all right, I'm . . . I need water," she panted, sitting up slowly as Missandei let her go.

"Wine may suit you better at the moment," she answered gently. "A light and crisp wine will refresh and soothe you."

Dany submitted to her handmaiden's care. She noted that the sky was darkening to a deep red hue, and the evening breeze was bringing air that smelled a bit fresher, air that had somehow gone around the city and smelled of the sea.

Evening deepened into darkness. She forced herself to dress, and met Ser Barristan in her receiving area. He seemed content to simply wait in silence as the night bore on, but it made her edgy. It had been hours. Surely dawn was approaching. Was everything lost? She suggested that he have a drink, and he graciously thanked her before going and filling his cup.

"We've been waiting a long time," she started conversationally.

He gave a slight nod in agreement, but didn't seem concerned.

"Haven't we?" she asked, anxious at his lack of worry. He only shrugged at her and seemed amused at her anxiety.

"Well I don't know, you tell _me_ how long it takes to sack a city!" she exclaimed softly.

He looked as though he would reply, but the familiar and most welcome sound of Ser Jorah's particular gait and chink of armor approached, and he and Grey Worm reported that the city had indeed fallen. For a moment, she was certain something was missing. Oh gods. "And . . . Daario Naharis?" she asked, sick that she'd lost the man she'd barely gotten to know.

She was almost embarrassed by both the look on Jorah's face at her query and her relief as Daario knelt in front of her and presented her with the harpy banner of Yunkai. "The city is yours, my Queen," he announced, looking up at her and letting her see his naked desire for her as he had the night he'd pledged his life to her.


End file.
